


Blue Light

by jendavis



Category: Leverage
Genre: Episode Tag, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've got their routines.  They don't need to talk about it.  (set after the Cross My Heart Job, and written for leverage500 prompt 4: colors)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Light

They don't talk about it, but not because it's so settled and permanent that they don't need to, more 'cause it's not.

Doesn't mean it's not good. Or that they haven't folded it into their routines.

The first few days after a job, they go their separate ways. On Eliot's end, it's decompressing and cold compressing, maybe weeding the garden, chores and training to get his head on straight for the _next_ job. Hardison's got his own habits. Usually takes a day or so to tie up the loose ends, eradicate any trails they might've left behind. He always texts the crew saying they're clear, just a status update sort of thing.

It's only part of Eliot's normal routine to notice when it's taking him too long.

\---

Monday night, two days early, hopefully not two days late, finds Eliot checking for lights on the sixth floor of Hardison's building. It's still early yet, no lights in the bedroom, so he ducks through the alley and checks the kitchen and living room windows around back.

There's a blue glow casting up on the walls and the ceiling. Flashes dark for a second, but from this angle, it's impossible to see if anyone's moving around inside. The cars in the lot all look familiar. The building's doors haven't been forced. No signs of life down here. It's probably just Hardison's computer.

His phone's screen is sharp bright white, this far back from the streetlights, but it's the blue six stories up that's got his attention.

Hardison picks up on the first ring, surprised. Phone calls, they haven't really worked into their non-routine.

But he sounds fine. No, he's not doing anything right now, hang on, he'll buzz Eliot in.

\---

The blue seems darker up here than it had from outside, bleeding into the shadows of the room and on Hardison's face. It's still there for a moment after he turns the lights on. It suddenly feels like last month all over again, when Eliot had broken routine, invited himself over for the game, and spent most of the weekend reminding Hardison that burial or not, he was still alive. Maybe this is something like that.

But Hardison's smiling tiredly, shaking his head at Eliot's concern. He'd just forgotten about sending the text, gotten wrapped up in a project. They're fine. No big deal.

There's no crisis, here, but that's not it, not entirely. Because they've moved on, beers in the kitchen, leaning against the counters, and Hardison's boasting's got this jagged edge that hasn't smoothed out through repetition, yet.

Three hundred forty-five people on that plane, and all they'd had between themselves and the ground was Hardison, alone in the control tower, the flight simulator painting his best guesses blue.

The fighter jet game in the living room looks distressingly complicated, even paused on the screen like that.

Two days earlier than he normally would, Eliot spends the night, stays, folds him- this- _Hardison_ \- into his routine just a little bit more.


End file.
